


Moon Garden

by wednesday



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Large Cock, Monsters Made Them Do It, Sex Pollen, Size Kink, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15982061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/pseuds/wednesday
Summary: Looking back, it definitely was all too easy to be a good idea. Talk to the succubus, find out where the Weavess goes when she’s not at Bald Mountain, follow the succubus to a set of caves, find the Weavess, kill her.Of course, it all goes wrong at the extremely suspicious caves.





	Moon Garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



Looking back, it definitely was all too easy to be a good idea. Talk to the succubus, find out where the Weavess goes when she’s not at Bald Mountain, follow the succubus to a set of caves, find the Weavess, kill her.

Of course, it all goes wrong at the extremely suspicious caves. Well, they start looking suspicious right after it’s too late – Ciri and Geralt are about a dozen feet into a cavern covered top to bottom in glowing magic traps when Geralt finally breaks the succubus’ thrall. At least, that’s what Ciri guesses has happened, because he shouts at her to watch out, which in turn breaks the thrall she’s in. Three seconds later she has a sword in her hand and Geralt, who was a couple of steps ahead of her, has the bites of three succubi on his hand and arm.

By the time Ciri decapitates the succubus that led them here, the other two have disappeared in the shadows of the cave. Damn, they shouldn’t have been able to bewitch them like that. Especially not Geralt, even if there were three of them.

“You ruined our party, so you’ll have to entertain us yourselves,” one of them says. Her voice echoes all around, giving Ciri no clue to where she is. It seems like they aren’t coming back for a fight, though, so Ciri kneels down next to Geralt, who has collapsed on the ground, curled up on his side and looks to be keeping himself from convulsing in pain by sheer force of will.

“Hells, they bit straight through your armour.” The bites aren’t that bad, but they’re very clearly filled with some poison. The skin around them is covered in black veins, from what little she can see through the torn armour. She unbuckles his armour and helps him out of it to better see the wounds, and almost regrets it. She’s seen what happens when a witcher poisons himself by overdoing witcher concoctions and this looks even worse, dark lines all over his arm.

“How can I help? White Honey? Swallow?” she asks, feeling a bit helpless.

“No,” Geralt answers. After gritting his teeth for half a minute, he continues with some difficulty. “Won’t help. You’ll have to. Have to go back up alone. Take my sword. Silver.”

“What?  _No_!” she exclaims after a shocked moment of silence. “You’re not  _dying_ , that’s just succubus venom.” As she says it, though, she can see it might truly be that bad. Three succubi all bit him, and not by accident either. There are dark lines stretching up the right side of his neck already and Geralt,  _Geralt_  looks completely overwhelmed with pain.

“Okay. It’s succubus venom, how do you...” She trails off when the relevant information resurfaces in her mind. “Oh. Okay, that’s simple.” Except it isn’t, because the traps on the walls aren’t strong enough to bind her magic completely, but they are making it strange and sluggish, so she can’t reliably teleport them to a brothel – the obvious solution – or anywhere else, really.

Which leaves the other obvious solution.

Ciri takes a deep breath and reaches for the laces of Geralt’s pants. Her hands only shake a little. She gets his pants open before Geralt even notices what she’s doing. When he does, he groans and tries to roll away, and Ciri has to press her hands down on his hips to hold him in place.

“Ciri,  _no_ ,” Geralt pleads, both his voice and expression pained and desperate.

“It’s okay, I’m just helping with the venom,” she says, and tries to smile to reassure him. It probably looks forced, but Geralt isn’t in the best state to notice. She pulls his clothes down just enough to get her hand on him. He's already hard, of course he is, that’s the point of this. It still surprises her somehow. She takes him in hand and starts to stroke the way she thinks it’s done. Geralt groans and it sounds very close to a sob; he arches his back, hips lifting off the ground and cock sliding against her palm, the circle of her fingers. The skin of it feels strangely soft, also something she’s never thought about before.

He smells of desire, as even she can feel with her regular senses. She’s never been able to tell that by smell, not with anyone, unless her face was pressed right against their skin, but Geralt reeks of it.

It doesn’t take long at all until Geralt's groans get louder, and he comes all over her hand and his own shirt. A few drops even land on her cheek and lip, and it surprises her so much that she doesn’t quite know how to react, or if she should react at all. There’s Geralt’s  _come_  on her face, and its bitter musky scent makes her insides twist strangely. For a moment she’s afraid she’ll be sick, but that’s not it. She just feels the heat and tightness of sudden overwhelming embarrassment.

Might be she didn’t consider what happens afterwards, before she rushed headfirst into, well, sex with Geralt. Oh gods, she’s had sex with Geralt now, no matter the reason for it.

The moment she gets distracted by her alarm and her hand slows down Geralt groans again, this time much more pained. Laughter echoes through the cave, and Ciri’s free hand reaches for her sword again.

“That won’t be nearly enough for your witcher,” one of the succubi says, voice everywhere at once. She sounds more breathless than before, but Ciri thinks it’s the same one.

She’s not wrong, though; Geralt’s beginning to double up in pain again, his legs shifting like he’s trying and failing to shake off muscle cramps, so Ciri resumes stroking him. He hasn’t gone soft at all, so she keeps the same rhythm as before, and he seems to be enjoying it, not in as much pain. Still, clearly in  _some_  pain, judging by the way he keeps wincing and gritting his teeth.

Ciri looks at the symbols on the uneven walls, focuses on the feeling of small pebbles digging into her knees and tries not to think, not to look at Geralt. It doesn’t work very well.

After a couple of minutes he starts moving his hips, thrusting into her hand at first shallowly, but gaining strength with every thrust. By the black lines on Geralt’s neck Ciri knows this probably won’t be enough, no matter if she keeps at it until her arm aches.

His eyes have been closed since the moment she put her hand on him, and she wonders who he’s thinking about. Is she doing it the same way someone else has done this for him? She wonders if he’ll still think about someone else when she does what she’s about to do, what she has to do.

The laughter and faint moans of succubi echo around them like clear bells and Ciri feels a sudden deep hatred of bells.

It takes him longer this time, but he comes again, loudly, and for a little while seems to relax, be overwhelmed by pleasure and the lack of pain both. Ciri uses the short respite to wipe her hand on the leg of his pants, and then to take her own pants off. She leaves the shirt because-- well, this isn’t the kind of thing for which people take their shirts off, right? She’s only doing it to keep him from dying.

Geralt finally opens his eyes when she straddles him. He looks dazed, but even so his shock and confusion is visible. She holds him, and lowers herself on his cock before he can object again or before she loses her courage. It feels wider than she thinks it should, pressed against her. For a split second she worries it won’t fit, but then she bears down with more force. Geralt moans as he breaches her and his eyelids lower, but they don’t close, this time. Instead he keeps watching her face. She can’t help but look back and this – this is the worst moment to start blushing. She hopes the heat she feels in her face isn’t as strikingly obvious as it feels.

Ciri can’t help the low moan that escapes her when she slides further down and feels how his cock fills her in a way that seems unbearable, too hot and too large, too distracting. She moans louder, though partly in fear, when she realizes he’s barely past halfway inside.

It’s her, now, who wants to close her eyes, because everything’s so much more intense than she expected. Her whole skin feels too tight on her, a size too small.

She feels a flash of doubt, because surely this is impossible, she was wrong and it won’t work. Geralt’s hands land on her hips and he thrusts up, the rest of the way in, and Ciri almost collapses on his chest with a silent scream, barely holding herself up by pressing her palms against his chest. He’s so large, too large. She’s never thought on this before, but now she’s sure he must be much bigger than other men. Surely this isn’t how it’s like with everyone – she thinks she can feel her flat stomach  _distended_  by his cock inside her. She tries and fails to muffle the pained whimpers that escape her when she settles down, Geralt's cock fully inside. The rough material of Geralt's pants scrapes against the backs of her thighs and pebbles dig into her knees, and she tries to focus on that. It helps dull the instinctive panic of having something so awfully, horribly huge inside her.

Geralt’s hands are like brands on her hips, palms rough and calloused, but he doesn’t move now that he’s inside and instead waits for Ciri to set the pace. She tries to move herself up and then down again slowly, her legs suddenly weak, muscles trembling faintly. Every slightest shift takes her breath and makes her falter, but after a while she has a slow rhythm of short thrusts going. Geralt pants beneath her, his hands clutching her so tightly she can feel the bruises forming already.

She forgets for a moment that Geralt’s still watching and curiously puts her hand on her belly. It really _is_ rounded now. She can feel his cock moving inside, and it makes hot shivers race down her back. It's so wickedly wrong, something that just shouldn't be; she presses down against it with her palm--

The next moment is a blur. And then she’s on her back, Geralt above her and inside her, thrusting in longer, harder strokes, and she can’t breathe at all. The moment she remembers how to get air in her lungs, she moans, and then she can’t stop moaning when he moves her leg up to his shoulder and keeps thrusting even deeper somehow. She can’t even tell if it’s from pleasure or pain. All the sensations blur together and make her head feel light, like she might float away.

The one thing grounding her are Geralt’s hands on her. Her mind keeps comparing this to every other time he’s touched her, pointing out all the ways this is different.  _Wrong_  different, and yet. Geralt’s weight on her presses down on her just the right way, better even than when she does it with her own hand. It makes her skin tingle, but it still hurts, and she both dreads and yearns for every single thrust. Pulls him closer, and then winces, each time.

“Please,” she whispers, and doesn’t even know if she’s begging for him to stop or to never ever stop, not for a moment. She might – she might get used to the feeling, she thinks. Maybe she only needs a little time to adjust.

Geralt presses his face into the side of her neck like he’s trying to smother his own sounds of pleasure.

“ _Sorry_ ,” he says in a broken whisper against her skin. Ciri wants to tell him it’s not his fault, wants to tell him she doesn’t mind. Before she can remember how to speak, Geralt leans up enough that she can see his face. He doesn’t look overcome with guilt – he looks like he  _wants_  her, eyes black and hungry.

His next thrust is even harder and it hurts all anew, and makes her spine feel drenched in liquid fire. Ciri digs her nails into his shoulders and holds on as white hot pleasure ripples through her in waves. Some moments later she feels Geralt tense up against her and slow to a halt. She feels suddenly, impossibly even fuller, and knowing he’s just come inside her makes another wave of shivers run across her skin.

Geralt leans down and presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek next to her mouth and starts moving again, thrusting shallowly. She can’t, not so soon--  _Already?_  Ciri hears the moans of the succubi like through a fog and then feels Geralt licking her skin right where he kissed her and –  _oh_ , he’s licking off his own come from her cheek. That’s  _something_ \--

–

 

They don’t bother looking for the succubi, when the venom runs its course. They just get dressed and leave. Ciri can barely walk, and it takes a great effort not to shiver visibly or make faces as she feels what seems like a constant stream of come trickle out of her and down her thighs.

By the time they get out of the caves and back to their horses she can’t look Geralt in the face, but that’s okay, because he can’t seem to be able to look at her at all. They make camp at the first stream they find, and spend a long time washing up and then washing their filthy clothes. Separately.

She still sees the marks her nails have left on his back, when she glances at him undressing. She’s always known he’s taken lovers, and yet somehow she’d never thought about what it is they do behind closed doors. Now that she does know, she might never look at him without thinking about it.

Later they wrap blankets around their shoulders while the clothes dry and Ciri watches Geralt clean, sharpen and oil his sword on the other side of the campfire. His hands keep clenching and unclenching, and it makes Ciri remember how they felt on her skin, the bruises they left. The silence stretches between them. It is harder to bear now that they’re sitting still.

Ciri looks up at the rising moon, the ring around it bright, and clears her throat.

“It’s going to be a cold night,” she says and motions at the cloudless sky when Geralt looks at her. She’s not sure how to say it, but by the way his face pales slightly in the firelight, Geralt seems to have understood.

“Ciri--” he says, but obviously he can’t find his words either.

“It’s going to be okay, Geralt,” she says and smiles at him. She gets up and starts arranging their bedrolls so they’re together. She can’t tell if he believes her or not, but either way after a minute he gets up to help.

When it’s time to sleep, he still looks scared, watching the woods around them like he might run away and sleep in a tree or something equally ridiculous. He doesn’t, though, and instead lies down with his back to her, as far away from her as he can without rolling off the blankets. Ciri huffs and pointedly shuffles closer so that their backs are pressed together. _She’s_ not keen to wake up frozen into an icicle.

The night does indeed cool down rapidly. After everything they both sleep deeply, and the next morning they wake up wrapped in an embrace, Geralt’s arms around her again.

  
  

   

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta Isis for all the help!


End file.
